Homage
by Wolfgang1805
Summary: Lt. Col. Doolittle spends a lot of time thinking about writing poetry. A tribute to bad characterization and pointless plots.
1. Default Chapter

In this short fic, Colonel Doolittle really has the spirit of a poet. A reinterpretation of "Pearl Harbor" as Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckhimer would never have shown it: without clear hero roles or any sense of drama whatsoever.  
  
Author's Note:  
  
I do not own the characters in "Pearl Harbor," they are the creation of Randall Wallace and probably belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and Michael Bay. No disrespect to the real James Doolittle is intended. Hopefully my character is so far from the real man that only an idiot would mistake him for the real Doolittle, or even Alec Baldwin's interpretation. Heck, any considerable similarity between the characters in this story and the original fictional characters is probably not intentional.  
  
I don't own the poetry of the inimitable Edgar Guest, either.  
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
Blue, it was so blue. The cloudless sky had a gorgeous cerulean hue that was mirrored in the crystalline waters of the rather large swimming pool, which already had a fine aqua color because of the painted walls of the pool. The sky made that pool look extremely blue, so blue he could practically sense it making his own blue, blue eyes even bluer than usual as they casually scanned the blank expanse of the page his pen was poised above. And yes, the page was blue, kind of a light blue that would provide a soothing backdrop for the words he would write.  
  
But nothing could be as blue as he felt on the inside.  
  
Yes, Colonel James "Jimmy" Doolittle was blue as a robin's egg inside. He just couldn't think of what to write. You see, though his occupation was being a military commander who oversaw a bunch of hot-tempered young fighter pilots, his vocation was to be a poet. Unfortunately, now he was suffering from a stiff case of writer's block. And the worst part was, he kept seeing, reading, and hearing another man's words in his head.  
  
The great frustration of James Doolittle's life was the fact that his mind, heart and soul were filled with these poetic ideas, but he just couldn't get them out in writing, at least not fast enough. He'd go to bed, his mind awhirl with thoughts. "Doing your chores every day, accepting whatever God caused to cross your path, putting your best into your job and not complaining - this was what gives a man true nobility. But how can I say this just right, in good plain language but with a certain simple, lyrical clarity?" he wondered. Then, the next morning he would open the newspaper, and there it would be:  
  
True Nobility  
By Edgar Guest  
  
Who does his task from day to day  
And meets whatever comes his way,  
Believing God has willed it so.  
Has found real greatness here below.  
  
Who guards his post, no matter where,  
Believing god must need him there,  
Although but lowly toil it be,  
Has risen to nobility.  
  
For great and low there's but one test:  
`Tis that each man shall do his best.  
Who works with all the strength he can  
Shall never die in debt to man.  
  
It broke James's heart, both because he had thought the same thing and couldn't find the words, and because what he was reading was so beautiful. Being a poet was hard.  
  
He doubted the boys he commanded could understand what it was like. They weren't poets. Sure, that Italian kid probably pretended to write poetry, but it was just a sham to get the girls to be sweet with him. It wasn't the same as trying to write your feelings about your country, or God, or your parents, or just how good a fellow would feel when he was out fishing. These were the things that made a man's spirit endure.  
  
Jimmy took a deep breath - it couldn't be called a sigh, he wasn't the kind of man to sigh - and cast his blue glance off towards the horizon. 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note:  
  
I do not own the characters in "Pearl Harbor," they are the creation of Randall Wallace and probably belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and Michael Bay. No disrespect to the real Colonel James Doolittle is intended. Hopefully my character is so far from the real man that only an idiot would mistake him for the real Doolittle, or even Alec Baldwin's interpretation. Heck, any considerable similarity between the characters in this story and the original fictional characters is probably not intentional.  
  
I don't own the poetry of the inimitable Edgar Guest, either.  
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
"Boy, the sky is blue today," thought Rafe as he lounged by the swimming pool. For what seemed like an age, he was content to think about nothing at all. Thoughts hurt his brain. He was a man of action, not a thinker. Unless it was thinking about action. And today was not one of those active days. It made him feel vaguely useless - not like Lt. Col. Doolittle. Even when he was still, it was like he was moving around. The strength of the Colonel's thoughts was so impressive, it gave him a kind of tension, like a coiled spring, or maybe a river stemmed up by a big dam that was about to break. Having never really mastered what might be called deep thoughts, Rafe couldn't help but be impressed by profound rumination. And no one could philosophize like Lt. Col. James "Jimmy" Doolittle. Was there anything that man couldn't do?  
  
Rafe was suddenly conscious that he was staring at Doolittle, though the older man was too absorbed in whatever important idea he was having to notice. He shot a brief glance towards his best friend, Danny, who was next to him by the pool. Danny was looking at the ground, and his eyes were shining with a watery glow. "That's the difference between Danny and Col. Doolittle," thought Rafe. "Doolittle's always looking at the sky, and Danny's always looking at the ground." Some deep recess of his brain wondered if that was a good thing for a pilot, to be looking at the ground instead of the sky. And there was the nagging thought in the back of Rafe's mind, that Danny might be just a little bit of a quitter.  
  
Not like Col. Doolittle. Rafe could not imagine Doolittle quitting, no matter what happened. In these troubled times, Jimmy Doolittle was the one man they could count on to be steady as a rock. He made Rafe believe in things like honor, patriotism, hard work, never giving up, and that distinctly American kind of nobility that wasn't pretentious or effeminate. It was a privilege to serve under him, and they all were grateful for the opportunity. But Rafe could sense a certain sadness about him sometimes, like today. He had given so much to his country, to his men, and Rafe hoped that it wasn't at the expense of his personal happiness, though of course he knew that the Colonel would not hesitate to make the sacrifice. That was why Doolittle was a great man, even though at times he seemed unfulfilled..  
  
Now Rafe's brain was starting to hurt from going in circles. He thought maybe talking to Danny would help, but when he looked over at his best friend he saw that Danny was crying quietly.  
  
"Hey, Danny," Rafe said. "What's wrong?"  
  
It took Danny a moment to collect himself. He was trying hard not to sob or be too noisy, and for a moment all he could do was sit there with his shoulders twitching and tears running down his face. At last, he managed to reply huskily, "I was thinking of my dad. You know, I was so scared of him." He looked away, the pain and shame too much to allow him to face Rafe. "God, Rafe."  
  
Then Colonel Doolittle's voice sounded, quiet but firm. "Listen, son. It's a real shame when a boy's afraid of his dad." He paused thoughtfully, and what he said next was so full of compassion and dignity that Rafe wanted to cry right along with Danny.  
  
Bill Jones, who goes to school with me,  
Is the saddest boy I ever see.  
He's just so 'fraid he runs away  
When all of us fellows want to play,  
An' says he dassent stay about  
Coz if his father found it out  
He'd wallop him. An' he can't go  
With us to see a picture show  
On Saturdays, an' it's too bad,  
But he's afraid to ask his dad.  
  
When he gets his report card, he  
Is just as scared as scared can be,  
An' once I saw him when he cried  
Becoz although he'd tried an' tried  
His best, the teacher didn't care  
An' only marked his spelling fair,  
An' he told me there'd be a fight  
When his dad saw his card that night.  
It seems to me it's awful bad  
To be so frightened of your dad.  
  
My Dad ain't that way- I can go  
An' tell him everything I know,  
An' ask him things, an' when he comes  
Back home at night he says we're chums;  
An' we go out an' take a walk,  
An' all the time he lets me talk,  
I ain't scared to tell him what  
I've done to-day that I should not;  
When I get home I'm always glad  
To stay around an' play with Dad.  
  
Bill Jones, he says, he wishes he  
Could have a father just like me,  
But his dad hasn't time to play,  
An' so he chases him away  
An' scolds him when he makes a noise  
An' licks him if he breaks his toys,  
Sometimes Bill says he's got to lie  
Or else get whipped, an' that is why  
It seem to me it's awful bad  
To be so frightened of your dad.  
  
When Doolittle was finished, it took Rafe a moment to find the words he wanted to say. "I-uh-that was just-it was just like Danny and me when we were kids. Wasn't it, Danny?" Danny had dissolved in sobs before Doolittle had gotten through the first verse, and now his eyes were practically swollen shut and Rafe couldn't tell if the clear drops hanging from the end of his friend's nose were tears or mucus, or both. Danny managed to nod through his sobs, and Rafe looked with a referent admiration at his commander. "Did you just think of that now, sir?"  
  
What a smarter man might have called chagrin flashed across Doolittle's face. "No, son. It was Edgar Guest."  
  
"Oh. Well, you read it so well, sir. And it was just the perfect thing to say in the circumstances. I don't think any of the other fellows would have thought of it."  
  
A crowd had indeed gathered as Doolittle was reciting the poem, and now Rafe 's fellow pilots nodded and murmured their agreement, except Danny who was still crying.  
  
"If you don't mind my saying," Rafe ventured further, "You read that like you had written it yourself. It takes a special kind of man to know his poetry that well. And I swear, that poem was just so-uh-true. It was like it had been written about me and Danny. Isn't that so, Danny?"  
  
Danny nodded. He was still crying, that was how much Doolittle's reading of that poem had gotten to him.  
  
Steinmetz said, "Pilots don't cry that often. Guys in foxholes cry a lot, on the other hand. And pee their pants." 


End file.
